Whoever is dead
Over those heroes
Our future would march
into the tunnel of chauvinism.
More or less, less or more
The loot will not change
but the looters might, now empowered
with that slight change in dialect.
The dream goes on
to distill and separate
the blood mixed over time.
Cartographically speaking, I belong
to two different sides.
My tongue is from the other side
but the rest is from here
I only wonder about my mind
Who would lay claim on that?
Celebrating our helplessness
suddenly suicide is heroic and the bards are out
writing songs for the coming of a golden age.
Wishing for a Midas, who would
bury us alive in his wealth.
For the revolutionary artists, recession has ended
Free food and shelter, and a footnote in the history
is all guaranteed for them, either way.
They played with stones all these years
and only now struck the golden spark.
The fire caught on to the dry forest
Warm for now and like the early man
they dance in a trance.
Clothed in white, the egos are short
but their shadows wish to be long
and crawl towards the horizon of time.